There were times when I stayed up late working on poetry, after Andrew had gone to bed. He often wanted me to stop and come to bed with him, and sometimes I did but other times I kept writing. I would think, 'I'll live to regret this', but at the time it felt important to keep writing. That last almost-week he was home, I was determined that I would start reforming my ways and go to bed and cuddle him more often — but then, so soon, he was gone.
I have lived to regret it. Now that I can't wrap my arms around him any more and feel his around me, I have been wishing very much that I had done so more often. (Even though I also know it would have been bad for me to give up my life of writing, which for many reasons often had to happen at night.)
Just now I finally realised that it makes no difference. Even if I had gone to bed early with him every night of our lives together, even if I had cuddled him every night — I would still be wishing now that I could continue to do so.